I’ve been praying for acceptance and for peace. Whatever happens, I’ve been saying, I just want to be able to handle it.
Acceptance and peace.
These are the two things I also dread. I feel them creeping around in the back of mind. They whisper in pseudo-scientific mumbo-jumbo; you’re already thirty-two, and you’re not very fertile to begin with. Just be happy with what you have.
The truth of the matter is that I dread being happy with what I have. I dread the day I proudly proclaim that my only living child is a miracle and that I’m at peace with the size of our family. It feels like settling and it feels like giving up.
I dread the day I’ve accepted all of this and am at peace with it because I know when that happens it will be over. Everything I currently want with every fiber of my being, every hope and dream I have will be over. Knowing that I will regret many things about the last four years if it turns out that this was the only chance I’ll ever have at this. How cruel it will seem that the job I took to keep my depression and anxiety at bay after my pregnancy, that my mental health, robbed me of my only chance to fully experience my child as a baby and a toddler.
I try not to say this very often, but it’s just not fair.
I don’t actually want acceptance and peace. I don’t want to go through this no matter whom I’m helping or inspiring. I want what I don’t have, what I may never have.
Accepting a will and a plan that is not yours is so hard and so frightening and deep down, I don’t want to.